#norecas

very thankful for everyone who watched me spin my wheels here during edits lol so here she issssss

She found out early on that, if she didn’t indulge in thoughts of him, they found her anyway. Her solution was to allow herself thirty seconds of memory, of fantasy and recollection, then to lock it all away. So for thirty seconds, she imagined it: going back to the table, her hand resting on his shoulder then moving to his neck. If she pulled him up, allowed her mouth to crash against his. If she dragged him up the stairs and felt his hands on her waist, her hips, her breasts. In contrast: if she finally found the courage. If she unsheathed her blade. If she buried it in his stomach, and his eyes found hers as he took his dying breath, and realized, finally, that he had underestimated her for the last time.

She felt it when he sighed, when he leaned his forehead down, tucked his face into her spine. Perhaps he only allowed this because he knew that she, too, was not fully in her right mind. “Nore,” he said again, and she felt his lips move against her shoulder blade.

It was easy enough to find the page she was looking for, the web of Luthrite noble families. Easy enough to trace her fingers over the names, uncoded—even in a jumble of meaningless letters and symbols, she knew exactly where to find him. She traced the name with the tip of her finger. It was crossed out—but she knew better. He was many things, but he was certainly not dead. She let her eyes slip shut. Let the memories slide over her. Then she tore the page from the dossier and held the corner of the paper to the flame, watching the paper blacken and the names disappear as it burned.

“Oh, gods,” Locke said, rubbing her eyes. “Bell.” She looked up at Ola. “Whatever you do, do not let me go into the southwest hall again until he leaves.” “You could kick him out,” Garna said. “He is your guest, you know.” Locke withered. “I promised Sela—” “A Stratan friend,” Garna supplied, catching Nore’s confused look. “—that he could help us figure out what is historically significant and what needs to stay or go or be protected or guarded or thrown into the sea.” “We should not throw any of it into the sea,” the Viper said gently, as if he was comforting her. “It’s all historically significant to someone. Probably to many people who are not you, because most of us do not live in an ancient fortress full of priceless objects.” “You do, in fact, live in an ancient fortress full of priceless objects,” Ola said to the Viper. Nore glanced at Caspian quick enough to see his lip twitch. “Then you can keep them at your house,” Locke said, possibly to Ola, but also possibly to the Viper. She turned her attention back to Nore. “He’s using the hall as some sort of office/museum/archive while he works on his research—he’s taken over the entire hall, and the adjoining rooms. I swear to you, he kept me for two hours last week to talk about a shoe. A shoe, Ol. I could not even talk about my own shoes for two hours, let alone one belonging to someone dead whom I’ve never heard of.” “I thought it was a purse,” the Viper remarked. Locke buried her face again in her hands. “An unidentifiable piece of leather."

Found out the reason Aurelian was banished: left formal Lochan/Eprainish engagement early citing stomach ailments, was discovered in a larder with two of Locke’s attendants, apparently in a compromising position near some of the delicacies cooling for the evening’s feast. The Viper handed down the order of banishment for “Insulting my lady, embarrassing my staff, and ruining my dinner.” Nore Gordon’s notes, decoded, 1636

Caspian drew a breath. Shook his head. “Take care of my cat for me, Finch,” he whispered, his eyes still closed. Nore laughed, the sound wet with tears. “He’s not your fucking cat,” she said.

“You’re afraid of my magic,” he murmured against her skin, his lips grazing her ear.